Random Acts of Poetry

Grey November

November would rise early
if this wet, woolen sky
did not sit so low.
The clouds, engorged
hang over the horizon
like bloated bellies overhang a belt line,
drowned in dreary sameness.
The air is a steel blade
that slices deeper with every breath.
Hoary wind pelts my cheeks,
encrusted lashes close my eyes.
The sun hides behind
a veil of cold disappointment
on this grey morning.


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As colors go, I like grey. It is cold and disappointing. But it can be felt.
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PROMPT: COLOURS
*colors is fine for those using American spellings.

I'm in a sensory mood and all my paints are still in storage.

I don't want to just "see" the colours, I want vibrate with colour.
I want to see them, smell them, taste them, touch them, hear them.
If you want to try to get them to infuse with my spirit, have at it.

Form is up to you. Length is up to you. What you write about is up to you.